


Heave Ho, Thieves & Beggars

by TheLifeOfEmm



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Action and Drama, Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Caribbean setting, Enemies to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Implicit colonialism, Lieutenant Javert, Light Bondage, M/M, Mentions of alcohol and prostitution, Privateer Valjean, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tropical Weather, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26581060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: “Messieurs,” Javert said through gritted teeth, gesturing for the officers behind him. “Arrest this man at once, and confiscate his cargo.”“On what charges?” Valjean asked calmly even as he was seized by the shoulders.“Piracy,” Javert growled. “As you know very well.”
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53
Collections: Sewerchat Anniversary Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedThePear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedThePear/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Red! I hope you'll enjoy your gift, I took a few liberties with your prompt but tried to stay true to the dynamic that interested you. Happy Sewer Exchange!

The sun was a golden disk set high in the noonday sky, and it beat down with relentless ferocity on the port of Tortuga. The glare pierced the eye even under the brim of Lieutenant Javert’s cocked hat; another man might have let out the laces to better shield his face, but Javert remained staring fixedly at the pier, where even now a topsail schooner was unloading her goods. Though the azure waters of the bay were teeming with smaller sloops and cutters, any one of which might have been transporting smuggled goods, it was the schooner of which he was the most suspicious. 

Under his watchful gaze, two men came down the gangplank carrying a large crate between them. They set it on the pier and returned to the ship, heads bowed low against the sun. On the side of the crate was an insignia which even at that distance Javert thought he recognized. The sight of it sent a frisson of electricity down his spine.

Motioning to the pair who stood guard beside him, the Lieutenant said, “Come with me, and stay alert.” 

Trusting the men would follow, the _Lieutenant de vassieau_ came down off the wall and strode onto the dock. The schooner loomed overhead; from his new vantage point, Javert could read the curling script along her bow that christened her _La Madeleine_. As he approached, three more men descended from her deck, each one rolling a cask before him.

“Where is the Captain of this vessel?” Javert demanded. At his query, the trio looked up.

“Still aboard,” answered one. “Why, what’s a couple of Royals want with the _Commandant_?”

“That depends,” Javert said coolly. “Why don’t you go and fetch him, that we may discuss it?”

The sailor grinned, standing his cask on end. “And what if I don’t, eh? You’ve got no right ordering us around.”

The Lieutenant opened his mouth to retort when he was interrupted by a mild voice asking, “Is there a problem?”

Javert raised his head. More sailors were leaving the ship, laden with further supplies. One of them, an older man with shaggy white curls tucked beneath a skullcap, was hefting a large crate on his lonesome; he set it down and turned to Javert, smiling placidly. 

“I am the Captain of _La Madeleine_.”

“You?” The Lieutenant looked him over doubtfully. Like the rest of his crew, the newcomer wore loose-fitting breeches and sandals. His chest was covered by a thin white blouse, and a crimson scarf wrapped his waist. Then Javert met his eyes, and recognition struck. “Jean Valjean?”

“Javert.” The man ushered his crew aside and stepped forward. “It has been a few years. Are those a Lieutenant’s bars on your coat? Congratulations.”

“Messieurs,” Javert said through gritted teeth, gesturing for the officers behind him. “Arrest this man at once, and confiscate his cargo.” 

“On what charges?” Valjean asked calmly even as he was seized by the shoulders.

“Piracy,” Javert growled. “As you know very well.”

Valjean’s eyes fluttered closed. “Ah,” he said. “I thought we might run into this little snag. My cargo is legitimate, I assure you.”

“A _snag?_ ” The Lieutenant’s brows disappeared beneath the brim of his hat. “These crates bear the seal of the Royal Barcelona Trading Company. But please, by all means tell me how the Spaniards entrusted their treasures to a known pirate for safekeeping.”

Valjean cleared his throat. “I did not mean to suggest that the cargo was acquired with the permission of the Spanish. I suspect they are rather cross at the loss of their prize, actually. However, if you will ask your men to release me, you will find my business is legitimate nonetheless. You see, after our last encounter, the King elected to grant me a letter of marque rather than an appointment with the gallows.”

At that, Javert paused, thunderstruck. “What?” he said incredulously. “You, a privateer? I do not believe it.”

“I have the paperwork,” Valjean replied. “And in the meantime, I would appreciate the opportunity to move the contents of the prize to a warehouse. We are somewhat barricading the pier with these crates.”

Javert stared a moment more. “So be it,” he muttered. “Let us see this foolish letter, if it exists. I have other matters to attend to today.”

He waved his hand and his officers stepped back, permitting Valjean to straighten and reach into his pocket.

“Here,” he said, withdrawing a folded bundle of parchment. “I trust you will find everything in order.”

Javert accepted the bundle expressionlessly, and opened it to the first page; there, the dreaded words _Lettre de Marque_ , precisely as Valjean had described, and at the bottom, the signature. A sour taste puckered Javert’s mouth.

“I see.” Refolding the pages, he returned them stiffly. “Instruct your crew to take the cargo to the admiralty court for auction. Register your vessel with the harbormaster, and then find rooms if you so desire. I am certain the brothel would be happy to accommodate you,” he added with a sneer.

Valjean was no longer smiling, but returned his gaze evenly. “Monsieur Blanchet—please see to the transfer of the cargo. It seems I must speak with the harbormaster.”

The Captain turned to go, but Javert caught him by the arm. 

“Do not think yourself above the law here, Valjean,” he said lowly. “Backwater this colony may be, but the navy protects all French territories, and there is no tolerance for piracy of any sort. See that you stick to the terms of your contract exactly—fail to do so, and you might yet face the gibbet.”

Valjean pulled out of his grasp, a frown creasing his weathered features. “I see you haven’t changed,” he said wryly. “Please excuse me—as you so generously pointed out, I have many duties to attend to. Good day, Lieutenant.” 

With that, he turned and walked away, pulling a green cloak around his shoulders. Javert watched him go, simmering in dissatisfaction. It was some time since he’d taken Valjean into custody with the rest of his crew, and Javert had assumed the man long dead. To have to speak civilly to him now, to maintain the pretense they shared the same side—it was intolerable. 

Holding his head high, the Lieutenant turned in the direction of the admiralty court. There Javert would ensure that Valjean’s letter of marque was held to the highest level of scrutiny—and if anything turned up amiss, there would be hell to pay. Valjean could make a fool of him once; he would not manage to do so again.

* * *

_Fifty-two casks of brandy. Three dozen bolts of chintz. Sixty hogsheads of sugar, and twenty-seven of tobacco._

Valjean examined the appraisal of the prize’s contents, frowning as he worked through the arithmetic in his head. The prices from the admiralty court were good—sold at auction, his crew would make fair wages even after shares were paid out to the Governor. As for the captured Spanish vessel, Valjean supposed that it would be sold as well, though he had little need to line his pockets with any further coin. Perhaps he would divide it among the crew as a bonus, after they left both the port and the opportunity to drink their earnings behind them. 

The tavern buzzed with the murmur of voices and occasional bouts of raucous laughter. Valjean sipped steadily from a pint of beer, disinclined towards the stronger bottles of spirits behind the bar. With a quiet sigh, he turned his attention to a list of provisions; tomorrow, he would need to find a supplier if they were to leave port within the week. Valjean preferred to make their stay on Tortuga a brief one, and not only because of the small fortune he was being charged for room and board. Seeing Javert again had shaken him, more than he cared to let on.

The man had scarcely ranked Private when Valjean first knew him. Even then, Javert was unwavering in his ideals and vicious in their execution. It was little surprise to discover that the navy suited him; that regimented life must have offered all such an officer could have dreamed of, hunting down pirates and maintaining the king’s rule, certain of the world and his place in it. Valjean possessed no such certainty; perhaps that was why they were forever at odds. The man’s darkened brow, his too-perceptive gaze... there had long been something in the way Javert watched him that was different from the rest.

Valjean was drawn from his reverie by the sound of raised voices. Beyond the rows of rum-soaked tables, a staircase led up to rooms where one could pay a few livres to stay the night, or twice that to spend it with company. A woman stood on the bottom landing being upbraided by a dandy from town, presumably a customer; as Valjean watched, he edged her closer to the stairs, raising his cane threateningly. Whatever he had to say, it was plain the woman was unimpressed—when he came closer still, she struck him soundly across the face.

At that, the dandy reared back with a cry. He staggered, touching his bleeding lip delicately, only to turn again on the woman. By now, Valjean was moving, taking great strides across the floor, but the dandy did not seem to notice. He raised his fist, snarling, and the woman cowered—until Valjean caught him firmly by the arm.

“Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” Valjean said. “Is this man bothering you?”

The man in question twisted around, struggling fruitlessly against Valjean’s strength. “This is no concern of yours,” he spat. “It was the whore at fault, leading me on, playing me for a fool with that pretty face -”

“I did no such thing,” the woman interjected. Valjean glanced at her. Blonde and slender, and wearing a blue gown that exposed more collarbone than was considered seemly in polite society, Valjean supposed that she was indeed pretty; though of women, the Captain had never found himself to share the same passion as some of his crew. More to the point, she was young enough to be his daughter—and that caused the hand on the dandy’s arm to grip all the tighter. “My name is Fantine, Monsieur,” the woman continued. “This man, Bamatabois, he... I serve drinks in the bar room. And it is true that I sometimes see customers upstairs, but a man might at least ask before he begins making demands!”

“It seems to me,” Valjean murmured, “that there has been a grave misunderstanding here. Monsieur, I do not approve of needless violence, but attempt to harm her again and you will answer to me. Kindly apologize, and then vacate these premises.”

Scornfully, Bamatabois sneered, “Apologize? To the whore?”

“That is no way to speak to a lady,” said Valjean, and he seized the man instead by the scruff of the collar, dragging him away from the stairs. 

As the Captain thrust him bodily outside, Bamatabois straightened, dusted off his coat, and looked daggers at Valjean.

“You’ve made a dangerous enemy today, sir,” he shouted. “You have not heard the end of this!”

Then he stormed off, visibly affronted. Valjean shook his head and withdrew into the tavern, only to be immediately faced with an irate innkeeper.

“And what of his bill, Monsieur?” the man demanded. “Not to mention my lost revenue from the girl, that must be accounted for!”

He was a small man, clad in the worn coat of an infantry sergeant; Valjean had spoken to the innkeeper before and been unsympathetic. Now, as Thénardier worked himself into a frenzy, Valjean raised his hands to placate him.

“How much was the bill?” Valjean asked. 

“What?” Thénardier snapped, mid-rant.

“How much was the bill?” the Captain repeated calmly.

“Ten livres for the meal,” the man sniffed. “And twenty for the girl—but if Monsieur is interested -”

“I am not,” said Valjean. He opened his purse and withdrew the coin which was owed. Then he turned and crossed back to where Fantine was hovering on the stairs.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, guiding her over to his table.

“No, Monsieur,” she replied, sitting after only a moment’s hesitation. “Are you sure you don’t want -?”

“Quite sure,” Valjean interrupted, smiling faintly. 

Fantine’s gaze took on a knowing quality as she said, “I appreciate what you did. I must make a living for the sake of my daughter, if not my own. But gentlemen like that, they make me sick. I told him I refused, and—well, you saw the rest.”

“A daughter?” Valjean inquired. “How old?”

“She will be six soon.” Fantine sighed, picking at her apron. “Thénardier employs her as a scullery girl in the kitchen. It is no life for a child.”

Valjean frowned. “Then why stay? Surely a young woman such as yourself could make a better life somewhere more civilized than this.”

Fantine bowed her head. “My beloved took his leave of us not long after learning I was pregnant. Even in the colonies, there is little work for a woman who has a child and no husband.”

“I am sorry.” 

“It isn’t your fault.” Fantine laughed quietly. “But I do not even know the name of my rescuer, Captain...?”

“Jean Valjean,” the man supplied, and held out his hand in greeting. 

Fantine’s eyes widened. “Then you are the Captain of _La Madeleine_! The other girls were saying you used to be a pirate, but I can scarcely believe such a thing to be true.”

At that, some of the light faded from Valjean’s face. “It’s true enough,” he said tonelessly. “Does it bother you?”

The woman looked him over consideringly. “No,” she decided. “You’ve better manners than half the sailors who come in here. That counts for a lot, as far as I am concerned.”

Fantine rose back to her feet, only to frown at the window. “There is Bamatabois, coming back again,” she muttered under her breath. More loudly, she said, “Perhaps you had best be going, Monsieur—he could make trouble for you.”

Valjean got to his feet and pocketed his papers. “What could such a man do to me?” he asked.

From behind came the sound of the door opening, and the room’s chatter arrived at a standstill.

“There they are, sir, exactly as I told you.”

At the sound of Bamatabois’ voice, Valjean grimaced, but it was the response that made him turn.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Javert said. “I will take it from here.”

Valjean pivoted slowly to see Bamatabois standing between two younger watchmen and the Lieutenant, looking very pleased with himself. Javert’s face, on the other hand, was cold.

“Jean Valjean,” he said, stepping forward. “Two days in port, and already causing trouble? Somehow, I am not surprised.”

Flatly, Valjean began, “I don’t know what you heard, Javert, but -”

“Silence.” Javert stalked forward, his buckled shoes clipping on the floorboards. “Manhandling this upstanding gentleman, in an establishment you do not even own? Careful, or it’ll be a jail cell for you.”

Valjean blinked. Was not the Lieutenant’s whole purpose in coming here to see him in chains? But Javert passed him, marching towards where Fantine now shrank back against the table.

“As for you,” the man said, his voice clipped. “I understand that you struck Monsieur Bamatabois and caused him injury. The punishment is a week in prison, and a fine of fifty livres.”

“Fifty?” the woman gaped. “I cannot pay that, Monsieur.”

“A month in prison, then.”

Fantine’s face fell, and Valjean remembered that she had a daughter. What would become of a little girl, left all alone in a place such as this? His eyes flickered from Javert to Bamatabois, the dandy’s face set in an expression of vulgar triumph. There was only the slightest suggestion of a bruise purpling his cheek.

“Your pardon, Lieutenant,” Valjean said, stepping forward. “I believe you have been misinformed—it was not she who laid hands on the gentleman, but I.”

“What?” Bamatabois said in shock, even as Javert turned to face him.

“You?” the Lieutenant asked. His gaze narrowed.

“I suppose Fantine felt obliged to cover on my behalf after I intervened,” Valjean fabricated smoothly. “But this man is violent and cruel. I stand by my actions—I struck him, not the lady, and I would do so again.”

“He is a liar!” Obviously incensed, Bamatabois pointed his finger accusingly. “Did nobody see? It was the harlot! Arrest her at once!”

Valjean glanced around. He doubted very much that anyone had paid mind to a minor bar room scuffle, but they certainly had the attention of the room now. “Reckless words,” he murmured. “Do not let vengeance get the better of your judgement, Monsieur. Unless you want every man in this tavern to believe that you are no match for a serving girl, I would drop this.”

Bamatabois’ face contorted; then he seemed to notice their audience, and his fingers skimmed subconsciously over his purse. He glowered, but his protestations came to a noticeable halt.

To Javert, Valjean continued, “I will pay your fifty livres.” 

It was a statement, but no-one missed the challenge in it. Javert slowly looked Valjean up and down. Finally, his nostrils flared.

“Well then,” barked the Lieutenant. “Take him away.”

The watchmen came forward without further ado and took Valjean by the arms. They led him out of the tavern-inn, turning towards the road that would take them to Cayona, and the prison there. Valjean kept his face expressionless, even as he calmed the furious racing of his heart. It was only a week. And then he would leave Tortuga and Javert behind once and for all.


	2. Chapter 2

The interior of the prison fort was cool despite the tropical heat outside, its massive blocks of stone clutching possessively at the dark and damp. Valjean reclined against the wall of his cell, opposite the barred door. It was not the first prison he had seen the inside of, and he doubted if it would be the last. Still, he thought dryly, that did not mean his stay had been a comfortable one.

Next to the door was a bowl of water and a hunk of hard bread. Valjean watched as a large palmetto beetle scurried over it and vanished again into a crack in the wall. His quartermaster was a sensible man, one who would have careened the ship and seen to repairs with or without the Captain’s say-so. They could still depart on time. This was assuming, of course, that Javert kept his word and did not simply invent some excuse to hold Valjean indefinitely; though the Lieutenant was an honest sort, his hatred for pirates and their kin ran deep. Valjean touched the old brand on his shoulder self-consciously; Javert was hardly the exception in that regard. 

Footsteps in the corridor outside caused Valjean to raise his head. By his reckoning, he still had three days left of his week in jail, and it was not yet time for his rations to be delivered. The thought of what anyone else might want of him made his stomach turn uneasily; and then, as if summoned by his very thoughts, the Lieutenant himself stepped into view. Valjean stiffened imperceptibly.

“So,” said Javert. “Here you are.”

Valjean returned his impassive stare. No-one could fault the man for his decorum; even now, Javert stood with impeccable posture, his uniform pressed and clean despite the grime of the port city. A blue tailcoat fell over white breeches, silver buttons and trim flashing in the torchlight. He looked upon Valjean with disdain, yet there was a flicker there of something else, a hungry sharpening in the lines of his mouth that was as well suited to a wolf on the prowl as the man before him.

“You lied, didn’t you?” 

When Valjean did not speak, Javert scoffed. “I thought so. The harlot was the one to strike Monsieur Bamatabois, and you spoke in her defense. There is no proving it, of course, when the victim has dropped any charges against the woman. But you cannot fool me.”

“Is there a point to all this?” Valjean inquired.

The Lieutenant’s features twisted in a grimace. 

“I was sent,” he said. “To release you.”

Valjean got to his feet, glancing at the tally marks scratched into the floor. “I thought I had until the week was out.” The iron chain dragged at his ankle. “Who sent you?”

“Vice-Admiral Chabouillet,” Javert replied blandly.

Blinking, Valjean took half a step backwards. “What could the Vice-Admiral want with me?” he asked.

Javert took a set of keys from his belt and jiggled the lock. “We received confirmation today of a Spanish treasure galleon, the _Santo Cristo_ , approaching the Passage au Vent.”

He looked up and met Valjean’s gaze evenly. “As my superiors have reminded me, this is meant to be your area of expertise. You will fulfil the terms of your contract, and take the Spanish silver for our country.”

Javert entered through the open door and Valjean blanched. “My ship is hardly equipped to take on a treasure galleon,” he protested. “She will be twice our size, and armed to the teeth.”

At that, a terrible grin split across Javert’s face. He crossed the shallow cell in two long strides, separating another key from his ring. “Well, then. You had best think through your strategy carefully.” 

He crouched, and Valjean stared tight-lipped at the wall as the Lieutenant unbolted the shackles from his leg. When Javert rose again, he stood a breath away from Valjean’s chest, towering threateningly over him. 

“How unfortunate, to be in your position,” the man murmured. “In the event you are captured, the letter of marque guarantees you certain rights—but then, the Spaniards have an even lower opinion of privateers than I, haven’t they? They would sooner blow your brains out, papers from the King or no. The odds are certainly against you.”

Valjean returned his gaze unflinchingly, even as his stomach curled with anticipation. At last, Javert stepped aside and let him pass. With nerveless steps, Valjean plodded out of the cell. 

“You could also run,” Javert called out behind him. “If you left now, I suspect you could be in Port Royal in three days’ time. But know that if you do, neither you nor your ship will be welcomed in these waters again.”

Valjean paused in the doorway, breathing deeply through his nose. “Where am I to find the _Santo Cristo_?” he asked.

Javert laughed harshly and gestured in the direction of the harbor. “The Captain of the _Atalante_ was the one who discovered her. He has the details of her heading.”

Valjean nodded woodenly, a thousand thoughts and concerns vying for his attention at once. The odds of taking a galleon head-on were astronomical. And yet, it seemed as if he had little choice. Javert had outmaneuvered him.

Bowing his head, Valjean strode out of the prison and into the relentless sun.


	3. Chapter 3

Javert expected him to fail. 

It would be unfortunate to lose the silver, of course, but the Lieutenant did not think he could call it entirely a loss; not when it rid the waters of a ship and a crew who remained pirates in all but name. So when he received the missive from the Vice-Admiral informing him that the _Santo Cristo_ was in the harbor, flying French colors, Javert was nearly beside himself with disbelief. It had scarcely occurred to him that Valjean might succeed.

The missive also stated that Javert should meet Chabouillet at the harbor straightaway. Such an order was hardly even necessary; if Valjean had brought down a galleon in his schooner, Javert wanted to be there to see it.

The captured Spanish vessel was noble despite that she listed slightly to starboard, holes blown through her hull and the rigging in shambles. She soared above the pier, the figurehead of a rampant horse with a fish’s tail glimmering gold in the sunlight. Scarlet crosses marked her sails, now tattered by grapeshot. Docked beside her, the schooner too appeared to have taken heavy fire; even now, repair crews were starting to patch the hull and mend ropes. Javert watched, stiff-backed, as Valjean disembarked. 

Standing at his side, Chabouillet raised a hand to shade his eyes. “This is him, is it?” he asked. “He doesn’t look like much.”

Javert’s jaw tightened but he did not reply. That Valjean had succeeded in taking the _Santo Cristo_ served only to confirm what he had already known; Valjean was pirate’s stock through and through.

The Captain of the privateers strode up to them, his white curls falling out from beneath his cap and his clothes in disarray after the battle. The sash worn customarily around his waist was tied instead around his arm, a dark stain spreading sluggishly through the material. As Valjean drew nearer, Javert watched the man’s eyes flicker with curiosity over Chabouillet’s face, only to do a double-take as his gaze landed on the Vice-Admiral’s stripes. 

“Monsieur,” said Valjean, coming to a halt in front of them. He did not bow, but inclined his head slightly. “The _Santo Cristo_ is secured. I have personally inspected the prize, and the chests in the hold appear to carry several thousand pieces of eight, all stamped silver. I have left my quartermaster to see to the unloading. Also, there are a total of eighty-nine Spanish crew aboard. We have given the wounded what aid we can, but they will need to be transported inland for further medical attention.”

Valjean spoke all of this to Chabouillet, not so much as glancing at where Javert stood an arms length away. The Lieutenant rankled, both at being ignored and at the blank mask of expression he wore; a man like Valjean should have been cowering in the face of the Vice-Admiral’s authority, not speaking as though he were a respectable member of the fleet.

“If I may, sir,” Javert interjected. “I would advise sending some of our own aboard to oversee the operation. In the face of a temptation so great, disciplined men must ensure that light fingers are not given free reign over such a treasure.”

Now he had Valjean’s attention; the Captain’s head jerked around to him at once, a spark of anger flaring in his even-tempered eyes. But before he could say anything in rebuttal, Chabouillet nodded firmly.

“See that it’s done,” he told Javert, and as the Lieutenant returned Valjean’s gaze, his mouth curved upwards in a smirk. It was good for the man to remember where real power lay on the island, not with mercenaries but with sailors loyal to the Crown. 

“Now if that is all...” Chabouillet continued, but Javert took a step forward. 

“I want to know how you did it,” he growled, pinning Valjean with his eyes. “What trick left the Spanish ship no choice but to surrender?”

“I would also like to know that,” said Chabouillet musingly. 

“Ah.” Valjean looked vaguely discomfited; he rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, and said, “You might ask Captain de León—he has been confined to quarters for the time being.”

The Lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “I prefer to hear it from you.”

Mouth thinning, Valjean straightened, his shoulders unbowed despite Javert’s hostility. “There really is little to tell. _La Madeleine_ is smaller and fleeter than a galleon. We caught her off the coast of Inagua, in the shallows where she had less room to maneuver—it was the perfect site for an ambush. We forced her between a sandbar and a reef, and then she had no choice but to surrender or be cut to pieces as the tide went out.”

Javert scowled. “But how— _how_ did you force her? You said it yourself that you would be outgunned by a treasure ship. I do not believe you could have accomplished such a thing alone.”

At that, Valjean’s expression went deliberately flat. “If you have allegations to make, make them,” he said. “You believe I called upon the buccaneers of Île de la Tortue to assist in the _Santo Cristo’s_ capture.”

“I dare you to deny it,” Javert countered. “How else could you have managed this? Not through force of arms, that is sure.”

Valjean huffed humorlessly. “There is more to combat than force of arms,” he answered. “Though subtlety has never been your strength.”

“Captain, if you please,” Chabouillet cut in, sounding exasperated, even as Javert drew himself up to deliver an angry retort. “The Lieutenant’s concern is a valid one. Your victory today is to be commended, if it was honest. If it was not...”

“I understand.” Valjean’s voice was laced with bitterness, but his next words were as even as the calm sea that conceals a riptide. “An explanation, then.”

He gestured back at the galleon and said, “The truth, Monsieur, is that we were lucky. The _Santo Cristo_ was already nearing the sandbar when we found her. Her Captain was beginning to tack and change course, but she was on the leeward side of the island and the wind was not cooperating. I took a gamble, and we sailed past her.”

Valjean looked pointedly at Javert; clearing his throat, he resumed, “Despite our numerous disadvantages, de León did not expect to meet with resistance, least of all from a vessel our size. His crew were thus unprepared when we clubhauled, dropping anchor to swing the bow about.”

“Risky,” Chabouillet murmured. Javert’s eyes darted to his superior; surely the man was not sounding impressed?

“But effective. Broadside to broadside, their guns would have smashed our ship to splinters in minutes. Head-on, we presented much less of a target.” Valjean raised his shoulders in a sort of shrug. “We were able to fire forward cannons and pin her down against the reef. De Léon returned fire of course, but he had nowhere to run. Eventually he was forced either to surrender or run aground—and once his helmsman was incapacitated, there really was no other choice.”

Javert raised a single eyebrow. “Another stroke of luck?” he asked sardonically.

Something shifted in Valjean’s stance at that; a subtle change which nevertheless seemed to Javert a challenge. “Not entirely,” the Captain replied. “He took a bullet to the shoulder which left him unable to steer.”

His lip curling, Javert scoffed, “And you claim that was not luck? A bullet, fired from a musket, and passing from the deck of one ship to another—a man would have to be a crack shot to manage such a thing.”

Valjean smiled faintly. “That is very kind of you, Javert,” he said. The slightest glow of mockery danced in his eyes. “My crew would no doubt say I am a fair marksman, but for you to pay me such a compliment, I suppose it must have been quite the feat indeed.”

“You?” Javert repeated. “I do not believe -”

“Gentlemen.” 

At the Vice-Admiral’s voice, Javert swallowed the scathing words on his tongue; he had nearly forgotten himself before the commander of the fleet, an unconscionable breach of protocol.

“I have more pressing matters to attend to than listening to you two bicker,” Chabouillet told them. “You say you searched the ship personally, Valjean—was there anything else of note?”

The man visibly composed himself, turning from Javert without a second glance. “Two things,” he said.

Reaching into his vest, Valjean withdrew a scroll of parchment, the wax seal broken. “When I searched de Léon’s cabin, I found this. It is a letter from Captain Juárez, of the _San Juan Bautista_. The two ships were to meet not far from here, at the head of the Passage au Vent. From that point on, Juárez would act as escort to the _Santo Cristo_. His ship can have been no more than two days behind her.”

Javert and Chabouillet exchanged looks.

Folding his hands behind him, Valjean continued, “I doubt Juárez will be pleased when the treasure galleon fails to materialize at the rendezvous point. By my estimate, you have less than a week before a Spanish man o’ war appears in the bay to reclaim the silver.”

Chabouillet accepted the scroll with an unreadable expression. Reviewing its contents, he said slowly, “This will require further investigation of its authenticity. I will bring the matter to the attention of my generals.” 

“I shall escort de Léon to the fort, sir,” Javert said at once. “No doubt you will want to question him.”

“I’ll leave you to it. Javert, escort the Captain back to his ship.” 

Chabouillet turned to go, but Valjean coughed politely.

“I wasn’t finished, Monsieur,” he said.

Javert’s eyebrows shot into his hairline at the audacity, yet the Vice-Admiral merely looked amused. “Very well,” he replied, pausing mid-stride. “What else could be so important that you cannot merely relay it to my _Lieutenant de vassieau_?”

Valjean squared his shoulders and looked Chabouillet in the eye. “This. You must empty the bay of ships, before sundown.”

“I beg your pardon?” Chabouillet asked. His glance to Javert seemed to inquire if the Captain were joking, but Javert was listening grimly, expression fixed in a frown. “Why on earth should I do that?”

“Because,” Valjean began, pointing south-east, “there is a storm coming. My lookout spotted it on the horizon as we set course to return to Tortuga.”

There was a strange earnestness about him as Valjean added, “Let any craft small enough to be dragged ashore be lashed down now, while there is time to preserve life and livelihoods. The rest should move deeper into the bay and weigh anchor. If we must ride out a hurricane, I do not want my crew dashed against the rocks of the harbor.”

Chabouillet’s brow creased heavily. Were Javert in his position, he would have ordered Valjean out of his sight for taking such a familiar tone. But the Vice-Admiral was a diplomatic man; he hummed, and said only, “In this, I defer to the harbormaster, for it is his decision to make. I will convey to him what you have said.”

“Thank you.” The relief in Valjean’s eyes appeared genuine, though Javert struggled to imagine what his sort could hope to gain from such a request. “If I may, I would like to return to my ship now, to begin preparations.”

“You are dismissed,” the Vice-Admiral told him. “Oh, but Captain?” 

Valjean looked back. 

“You will meet us here again at six o’clock tonight, after I’ve had the chance to verify what you have told me.” Chabouillet’s face hardened as he added, “What happens then will depend on how much of it was a lie.”

He beckoned for Javert to follow, and the pair turned back towards shore, leaving Valjean to stand staring in their wake.

* * *

It was true, all of it. 

As far as Javert could perceive, Valjean had not attempted to deceive them in any capacity, neither in regards to the Spanish warship, nor the hurricane which was brewing on the horizon. He was not sure which annoyed him more—that Valjean had been genuine, or that Chabouillet seemed prepared to accept his advice at face value. 

In town, the bell tolled the hour. Dutifully, Javert hovered at Chabouillet’s side as they waited in tandem for Valjean to show. Under his arm, the Lieutenant carried rolls of maps and charts, the tools they would need to plot the next course of action. Chabouillet glanced at his pocketwatch. Valjean was three minutes past the hour already. 

That afternoon, the Vice-Admiral had fulfilled his promise, speaking with the harbormaster about reining in the smaller craft. By now the sand was littered with them, dozens of vessels beached and bound with heavy rope to the palm trees, lest they be swept away in the tidal surge. The bay felt barren in their absence, a foreboding reminder of what was to come. 

Of the ships that remained, too large to be easily taken from the water, the sails had been clewed up tightly to their yards. It left the masts looking like naked, spindly things, matchsticks to be snapped in the iron grip of the storm. Valjean’s schooner had received the same treatment as the others, the topsails and mizzen already taken in; the Captain was many things, but at least he was not the type to risk his crew’s safety with pointless displays of bravado. But as for his tardiness, Javert had less charitable words; he shifted the weight of the maps in his arms and scowled.

At last, perhaps a quarter after the hour, a figure appeared on the gangplank. 

“Good evening,” Valjean said as he approached. “I apologize for the delay—my crew worked as quickly as they could to make both _La Madeleine_ and the _Santo Cristo_ stormworthy, but we have only just finished the necessary repairs.” His eyes flickered between their faces. “I trust you found my accounting of events to be entirely in order?”

Chabouillet nodded brusquely. “The letter from Juárez indeed appears to be genuine. My generals are not so generous as you—weather aside, they give us no more than three days to prepare before the man o’ war arrives. After all, when a treasure ship goes missing in these waters, where else should the Spaniards turn their gaze but Tortuga?”

Javert observed Valjean’s features closely over the course of this speech, every twitch of the lips, the slight furrow of his brow—all of it spoke to relief, doubtless knowing how Chabouillet could choose to make life difficult for him if any part of his story were called into question. As for the storm, that spoke for itself—the sky grew darker by the minute, and a stiff wind was whistling through the palms which even an hour before had been little more than a gentle breeze. 

“I propose we head into town,” Chabouillet went on. “We can take shelter there from the elements over a couple of pints. And perhaps you can apply some of the tactical skill that earned you the _Santo Cristo_ to this problem of the warship.”

Valjean blinked and opened his mouth. Javert gathered his words, prepared to launch into the diatribe which would remind Valjean that Chabouillet’s invitation was not merely a suggestion; but when the protest came, it was not to do with the warship.

“Monsieur, I can hardly leave my crew to fend for themselves on the eve of a hurricane.” Valjean gestured at the schooner, who even now was preparing to move into deeper water. “The bay will provide shelter, yes, but they will need a steadying hand to calm them in the maw of the storm. I understand the urgency of time, so why do you and the Lieutenant not come aboard?” He smiled, a lopsided expression which grated on Javert’s every nerve, and added, “I daresay I can see to it you get that pint.”

Immediately, Javert balked, but Chabouillet was already nodding thoughtfully. “Good, then,” he said. “Lead the way, Captain.”

The moment his superior spoke those words, Javert’s jaw clenched. He did not care for the idea of boarding Valjean’s ship; it bore too much resemblance to walking unarmed into a lion’s den. But an order was an order, even an implicit one, and as the Vice-Admiral followed Valjean with smooth strides, the Lieutenant fell unquestioningly into step behind. 

Scaling the gangplank, the men arrived amidships to find the crew waiting. Javert surveyed his surroundings, taking in everything from the stacked lifeboats to the heavy cannons to the knots which held the rigging pulled taut. Shoddy though this crew may have been, their workmanship was not; it irritated Javert more than he cared to admit, to say even in the privacy of his own thoughts that Valjean ran a tight ship.

“Sir,” said a man Javert took for the quartermaster. “Everything is as you asked for. Extra ballast in the hold, and every line checked over.”

“Excellent.” Valjean clasped his hands and looked around. “Cochepaille, kindly take the Lieutenant’s maps to my cabin. We will convene there as soon as our anchorage is adjusted.” 

Javert parted with his scrolls only grudgingly; the privateers—pirates, a small corner of the Lieutenant’s mind continued to insist, wolves in sheep’s clothing—were not shy in the glances they cast his way. Some were merely curious. Others, men who had no doubt been spared the gallows at Valjean’s side, looked at him in open dislike.

But any mutterings of discontent were soon put to rest. Four ropes on the starboard side held _La Madeleine_ to the dock, and now Valjean gestured towards them. “Take in the bow line and stern lines. The back spring after. Let her come about.”

Men leapt to at once, hauling in the gangplank and letting slip the lines from their moorings. Slowly, the prow began to drift forward into the bay. 

“Slack off the head spring,” Valjean called, and they drifted farther, pulled by the slight suction of the tide. The rope tugged free, and then they were away. The minutes passed in tense silence as little by little the schooner crept into the waves. At last, when they were near the center of the bay, Valjean raised his hand. “Weigh anchor!” 

The chain dropped; the ship shuddered to a halt. 

To all, Valjean said, “Go on then, back to your posts. Take in the rest of the sail and get belowdecks. No man walks the main deck without first tying himself off to the ship, lest wind or water take him overboard.”

A chorus of “Yes, sir’s” sounded back, which Valjean waved off affably. Then he turned, and locked eyes with Javert. Valjean’s expression sobered at once.

“Ah. This way, Messieurs.” He motioned towards a scuttle in the deck, lifting the hatch to reveal a narrow ladder beneath. As Valjean began the descent into the hold, Javert surveyed the deck one final time. One sailor, a man named Brevet whom the Lieutenant was certain had been set to hang, glared at him and spat. Javert’s lip curled back in a sneer, and he dropped down into the hatch.

Though abovedecks the sky was dimming as the clouds billowed and rolled, belowdecks the world was plunged into complete shadow. Lanterns hung from the bulkheads served only to emphasize the darkness, and a thick smell of damp and must rose in Javert’s nostrils. Valjean led the way through the forepeak, past the swaying hammocks of the officers and an empty mess hall. The powder room and armory sat aft of that, and then, at the very rear of the ship, the Captain’s quarters. 

“Please,” said Valjean, holding open the door. “After you.”

Chabouillet swept past him, but Javert paused on the threshold. 

“You trust that lot to manage on their own?” he growled, jerking his chin to indicate the crew above.

Valjean‘s lips curved. The sight stirred another hot flash of anger in Javert’s belly, but the man only said, “Fauchelevent is a capable quartermaster. He can handle them for now.”

With a dubious snort, Javert strode through the doorway.

It could be argued that the Lieutenant possessed little in the way of imagination. However, had anyone asked him to describe how he might conceive of Valjean’s personal quarters, even Javert would surely have envisioned something more lavish than this. As it was, the cabin was very plain. An untidy pallet sat against the wall, a cedar trunk at its foot, while the middle of the room was taken up by a long table across which the maps and charts were spread. There were a few shelves built into the bulkhead which contained the chamber’s only breath of personality: books, and many of them. But the walls were bare, the usual signs of a privateer’s lucrative occupation absent. 

Valjean latched the door quietly and took a few more oil lamps from a cupboard, lighting them and setting them in any open space. 

“Now,” he said, frowning at the spread of scrolls with a pensive stare, “perhaps you’d care to tell me what this is all about.”

Chabouillet planted himself at the head of the table and gestured toward a map of the island. “Javert, if you would?”

The Lieutenant came forward briskly. “Here is Cayona,” he said, pointing at the speck of a town. “And the harbor, here. De León has refused our offers to cooperate, insisting instead upon silence—therefore, it is impossible to judge in precisely which bay the _Santo Cristo_ and _San Juan Bautista_ were to meet. Our generals estimate it to be one of these three, along the Cuban coast.”

He indicated the various inlets as Chabouillet explained, “This assessment was based on the depth of the sea floor, the tides, the nearness to the Windward Passage. If the rendezvous point were on the uninhabited side of the peninsula, we could gain some time. It is entirely feasible that two ships might miss one another in the Atlantic, and Juárez could spend several days searching for the treasure galleon.”

“But you do not believe that was the case?” Valjean inquired.

Javert grimaced and pointed at the map again. “Given the season, it is unlikely. Any Captain worthy of the title would know the dangers of a hurricane this time of year, and there were surely provisions in place to guard against foul weather. Under the current conditions, the more likely scenario is that the ships were to gather here, in the sheltered harbor of Baracoa.” 

The Lieutenant’s expression only darkened further as he added, “It would take a mere word to the harbormaster to know the _Santo Cristo_ has not been sighted in Baracoa’s waters. We must prepare for the worst—that the Spanish suspect her disappearance at once and sail for Tortuga as soon as the weather clears.”

The weather; even as he spoke the words, Javert could feel it shifting. The quiet groan of the ship’s timbers grew more pronounced, the wind a ghostly lament as it whistled around the hull. 

“A man o’ war could make the crossing from Baracoa in two days, perhaps less under a favorable wind.” Javert took a compass from the tabletop, walking it across the page. “A hundred and fifty miles—and not one warship presently in our harbor with which to turn her back.”

“You could summon one, surely,” said Valjean. A little wryly, he added, “All of Saint-Domingue at your disposal, and there is not one ship of the line to come to your aid?”

“It will take time,” Chabouillet replied. “Time we do not have. Even if I sent the fastest cutter on the Île de la Tortue, it is doubtful they could reach Cap-Haïtien before Juárez invades the bay.”

“You know these waters,” Javert said. The way he spoke them, the words were almost accusatory. “If there is a way to slow or mislead Juárez until aid can arrive, you are obligated to help us find it.”

Valjean’s expression was unreadable, but he nodded slowly. Taking the compass from Javert’s hands, he began to mark out notes and ask questions of the Tortuga’s defenses—questions which on any other day, Javert would refuse to answer. The talk continued as they chased through one unlikely possibility to the next. The more heated Javert grew, the milder Valjean became, but always with the same stubborn glint in his eye. It was maddening—any angle he proposed, the Captain would as quickly pick apart.

The keening of the wind underscored the murmur of conversation, an ever-present reminder of the natural forces bearing down upon their fragile tar and plank shelter. Then, as the dying sunset was swallowed utterly by the billowing clouds, the rain finally began to fall.


	4. Chapter 4

“You cannot sweep them broadside without a warship to back you. The _San Juan Bautista_ carries fifty-six guns to starboard alone.” Valjean ran a hand over his face, wiping away his exasperation. “Juárez would blow you to bits the moment you came out of hiding.”

They had been at it for hours. 

Ten times over, Javert had raked his brains for the strategy that would disable a man o’ war before she could take out every ship in the harbor, but to no avail. It made his head ache, and his temper short. Valjean, he felt certain, was being intentionally vexing. And it was clear Chabouillet was also growing frustrated; if they did not arrive at a solution soon, he would have let down his superior and patron in the Marine Nationale.

Outside, the storm was strengthening. Though no porthole breached the compartment to overlook the turbulent sea, the ship itself told all: the waves, though softened somewhat from full force by the rocky arms of the bay, set the schooner to rocking as she rode each swell only to fall into the trough before the next. The wind had risen to a shrill scream, lashing the rain sideways against the hull. Again, the ship bucked. A lantern tipped from its place on the table and rolled over the edge—Valjean caught it deftly before it could hit the floor and shatter.

“What do you propose, then?” Javert snapped. “You can fire a shot at a helmsman from the crow’s nest, but this is impossible?”

Valjean frowned, his brow furrowing into ridges. “I see no way around it,” he said slowly. “You need a decoy, a ship to lead Juárez on a chase until a proper warship can be called up from Cap-Haïtien to intercept him.”

“You yourself are quick to dismiss every plan my Lieutenant has presented,” Chabouillet said, crossing his arms. “What makes you think this would work?”

An ear-splitting peal of thunder boomed overhead as Javert turned the same skeptical glare on Valjean as his superior. Yet Valjean was uncowed.

“It would have to be done carefully,” he hummed, bending over the maps and opening one which centered on the Île de la Tortue. “The decoy ship must be fast, staying just far ahead enough of the _San Juan_ to keep out of range of her guns. Perhaps flying the black—that would surely prompt Juárez to give chase.”

Javert exhaled through his nostrils. “And who do you propose captains this ‘decoy’ ship?” he inquired flatly. “The risk is substantial—no quarter will be given to a crew who sails under a pirate flag, even a false one. And besides, the dishonor of such tactics -”

“I will do it,” Valjean interrupted. His features were weary, but resigned. “ _La Madeleine_ is unmatched for speed. My crew will lead Juárez on a wild goose chase, and give you time to muster your forces.”

There was a silence; Chabouillet looked as taken aback as Javert felt.

“Why?” Javert said at last. He could think of a dozen possible reasons; perhaps Valjean merely wanted his ship long gone before Juárez opened fire upon the bay.

But Valjean lowered his eyes and answered, “You are right. There is no-one I could ask to shoulder the risk. And I would order no man to do what I would not do myself.”

“And your crew?” Chabouillet demanded. “Surely they will object when there is no profit to be had.”

Valjean rubbed his fingers over his jaw. “There is the bill of sale for the _Santo Cristo_. That will be a sizable sum, one I do not need to line my own coffers. I believe the crew can be persuaded.”

“I still do not understand,” Javert interrupted. “Why do it at all? You are not men of the navy. You know no loyalty.”

“When that ship comes,” Valjean began, “they will fire their cannons not only at the vessels in the harbor but at the town as well, until their prize is returned to them. Innocent people will die. You think because I am not like you that I am immoral, unprincipled—you are wrong.”

Javert glowered, his tongue poised to make a retort, but just as he opened his mouth to speak there came a tremendous crash. At first he thought it more thunder, but no—the noise was accompanied by a great lurch, and the ship groaned as her balance suddenly shifted to port.

“What was that?” the Lieutenant asked sharply, but Valjean was already sprinting past him, across the cabin to the door. 

Flinging it open, the trio beheld a passageway overcome by chaos as men hurried towards or away from the scene of the trouble. Without another word, Valjean took off running to investigate. 

Javert’s eyes darted to Chabouillet. “Sir?”

The Vice-Admiral sighed. “Follow him,” he said, and the Lieutenant did not need telling twice.

The floor pitched and shuddered under Javert’s feet as he chased after Valjean. The hall was crowded with bodies, each crewman barreling blindly towards his station. Javert shoved through their number without pausing to apologize; his eyes remained fixed on the white head of hair disappearing into the hold ahead of him. 

Valjean took the stairs two at a time, dropping down to the lowest deck of the ship. There, an inch of bilge water sloshed to and fro, soaking through the soles of Javert’s shoes with every new wave. The problem became immediately apparent: an entire rack of barrels, intended as ballast and filled with more water to steady the ship’s rocking, had upended over the hold. Now when the schooner rose on an ocean swell, the loose barrels rolled one way, only to go hurtling in the other the instant she slid down into a trough. The momentum was driving the ship to rock from side to side with dizzying ferocity.

“Courtois, Brevet, fetch the ropes!” Valjean shouted, straining to be heard over the clattering of cargo and the storm’s wrath. “All other hands, to the barrels!”

The ship tilted farther, a full fifteen degrees to starboard, and Javert leapt aside as dozens of heavy casks came tumbling in his direction. Valjean’s men followed close behind—it took two at a time to stop even a single one in its tracks before it could slam into the opposite wall, and the danger of being flattened was palpable. The Lieutenant removed himself as far as he was able, watching the crew roll their captured casks back to the rack, but there were plenty more still to be caught; the schooner trembled as she struck another wave, and the compartment began to tip back to port.

“Javert!” 

At the sound of his name, Javert jerked around and came face to face with a juggernaut of barrels directly opposite him. They slowed, precipitously balanced on the shifting floor as gravity and inertia took hold, until the balance tipped too far and they bore down in a stampede. Javert was too stunned to move—they were almost on top of him—

A weight struck Javert in the shoulder, shoving him out of the way as the barrels careened through the space he had occupied mere moments before. Gasping slightly in surprise, he looked about to find Valjean standing behind him. The man’s face was slightly flushed with exertion, his breathing heavy.

“I said, ‘all hands’,” Valjean said, as if nothing had happened. “That includes you, Lieutenant.”

Dimly it occurred to Javert that Valjean had just stopped him from being crushed. It also occurred to him that Valjean had given him an order. Yet as the crew flew past again, diving after the casks before they could do any more harm, Javert raised his eyes heavenwards and went after them. He caught the end of one, and put all his strength into rolling it against the incline of the floorboards to where Valjean and Brevet were lashing them back down. 

“Here,” Javert called, and Valjean turned. With one smooth motion, the man bent, muscles rippling under his blouse as he single-handedly heaved the barrel onto a shelf. 

Javert stared; Valjean did not even seem fazed, only the slightest sheen of perspiration dotting his brow. But then the moment was past, and the Lieutenant was forced to sidestep two more of the crew as they dragged over another barrel. 

The rack loaded higher and higher—without so much weight shifting around, the ship began gradually to steady. As the men reeled in the last of the stragglers, Valjean began dismissing them, clambering up and down the orderly stack of barrels himself to ensure the barrels were all secured. Javert hovered at the outskirts, his arms folded over his chest. The crisis was over—surely he ought to go and inform Chabouillet of what had happened? And yet against his better judgement, Javert waited, watching Valjean shoulder a cask and slot it into place, tying a couple of square knots to hold it down.

As the compartment emptied, Valjean cast a roving look around. His gaze, doubtless seeking other loose objects, landed instead upon Javert. The Lieutenant frowned at him defiantly, though defiant of what he could not entirely articulate. 

Valjean held his eyes placidly. “You need not stay,” he said, resting a casual hand on the barrel rack. “The Vice-Admiral must be wondering where you are.”

“He instructed me to follow you,” Javert replied, taking a step closer. Alone in Javert’s company, there was a tightening in Valjean’s shoulders, a tension which had not been there before. “You gave me an order.”

This time when Valjean tipped his head, there was an amused lift to his brow. “And?” he asked. “What did Chabouillet expect you to do here, exactly? Stand there and supervise?”

“I do not answer to you,” Javert said stiffly. “You had no right.”

Now Valjean crossed his arms, though he did not seem to be angry. “I am the Captain of this ship,” he reminded him. “As I understand it, that means I outrank you, Lieutenant.”

Javert colored, sputtering for an answer. “Be that as it may,” he grit out. “I do not take orders from... from...”

He could not think of the right word. In the silence, there was another crack of thunder, splitting the sky open with the force of its reverberation. He supposed he must look very strange, a man trying to find his way on uneven footing, mouth hanging open with a pejorative that would not come. And there was Valjean, watching him with eyes that were luminous in the lamplight. 

The memory surfaced then of Valjean pushing him out of the way of the barrels to safety. It was instinct, he supposed—Valjean was certainly no saint. And yet, he had volunteered himself and his crew to tangle with a warship. Those were not the deeds of a man with a pirate’s cowardice.

Without the leave of his conscious mind, Javert spoke again. “The _Santo Cristo_ ,” he said abruptly. “Man her with your crew and instruct her to follow in your wake. Juárez will be reluctant to fire on his own ship.” 

* * *

“Juárez will be reluctant to fire on his own ship.” 

Valjean stared, nonplussed, as though Javert had just begun speaking Greek. He tilted his head, about to respond, and then thought better of it. Instead he asked, “Are you giving me... advice?” 

Javert shifted, looking disgruntled with himself. “What of it?”

Regarding the Lieutenant with new consideration, Valjean laughed a little incredulously. “A moment ago, your words were anything but civil. Forgive me if I am a bit confused.”

He turned back to the barrels, fiddling with a few of the lines. They were secure, of course—he had only just tied them—but there was something about Javert’s gaze that unnerved him. Or, not unnerved him; the Lieutenant’s constant intensity made Valjean’s stomach drop, but in that moment, he was not sure it was with discomfort. 

The ship rocked on a wave, jostling the cargo. Fortunately, nothing went rolling. Still, Valjean was not about to trust it—a single loose knot could end in everything unraveling all over again. He turned to the next shelf, personally inspecting each rope for adequacy. Behind him, he was aware of Javert coming closer, the man’s steps splashing heavily in the water which pooled on the floor. 

“The storm is strengthening,” Javert commented, pausing just outside of Valjean’s periphery. “It will last through the night, at the very least.” 

Valjean nodded. The entire vessel vibrated with the hurricane’s pulse, shuddering in the grip of the winds. It was well they had pulled away from shore; under such conditions, _La Madeleine_ would have broken against the stony harbor for certain. Deftly, Valjean’s fingers untied a line that did not entirely meet his standards and refastened it. 

“Your attention to detail is admirable,” Javert continued, a hint of irony in his voice, “but surely this will more than suffice.”

Huffing an amused breath, Valjean turned at last to look Javert squarely in the eye. “There is a hurricane outside,” he said mildly. “It would take no more than one poorly-tied knot for another dozen barrels to all slip free of their berth, and then where would we be?”

Javert’s teeth glinted in the lamplight, his wolfish smile inciting a flip in Valjean’s stomach. “You’d know all about slipping free of a well-placed rope, wouldn’t you, Captain?”

Ordinarily the jibe would sting. Valjean was uncertain why it did not needle him now; perhaps it was the way Javert spoke it, a nigh-imperceptible curve to his lips, as if he knew he was being deliberately difficult. Humming to himself, Valjean’s hand slid along the curved flank of the barrel, the wood smooth and featureless beneath his fingertips. 

“You know where we differ, Javert?” he found himself saying.

“I can think of a great many ways,” the Lieutenant replied dryly.

“It is that for you, everything is cut and dried,” Valjean told him. “You do not think about an order when you are given one, you simply obey it.”

Javert raised an eyebrow. “It is not an officer’s place to question his orders.”

“Quite so.” Valjean’s voice turned thoughtful, and he tapped the barrel consideringly. “And yet, what is a man who never thinks for himself, who does only as he is told, no more and no less?” He paused, turning his words over in his mind before adding quietly, “There is more to life than obedience.”

“You are right,” Javert said after a moment. Valjean swiveled to face him, surprised. “We are very different.”

The Lieutenant stood too close, scarcely leaving more than a handspan of space between their chests. Valjean’s eyes flickered over him. In many ways, Javert was like the hurricane itself: steely, wrathful, not to be trifled with. And yet, perhaps it was in the hypnotic flicker of the lights, or the lingering flush of adrenaline in his veins; but Valjean found himself leaning forward instead of away. 

“I do not think we are as different as all that, Lieutenant,” he murmured. “Indeed, I think there is much we could converse on.”

Javert drew breath sharply. “I must be getting back to Chabouillet,” he said without moving. 

Valjean’s hand brushed his waist so lightly it might have been an accident; when Javert did not object, it settled there, an electric point of contact like lightning in a storm. Javert held himself as taut as a forestay to the bowsprit, but still he did not speak.

Stepping closer, allowing their legs to brush, Valjean said, “You may go, if you like. You are under no orders here.”

Javert opened his mouth, only to swallow instead. His eyes were dark, and for the first time Valjean could remember, uncertainty churned in their depths. But when Valjean’s other hand landed on the opposite side of his waist, something settled in Javert’s expression. Had he pulled back at that moment, Valjean would have released him immediately; but Javert did not pull back. He remained frozen, rigid, as Valjean advanced into his space. 

A strangeness had overcome Valjean’s person. He felt lighter than air, as though his feet hovered inches above the floor—a dizzying, disorienting sensation. Javert’s presence was warm, his own mouth too dry. He did not do this; this was not like him. In all likelihood, it was no more than the undulating rhythm of the waves which made his insides swoop; a wiser man would have put a stop to such madness at once. But the Lieutenant’s ill-concealed interest made Valjean bold, and the shadows cast by the lamplight on Javert’s face had the effect of transfiguring him from a hound on a lead to some feral creature. The result was unexpectedly alluring.

Time slowed to a halt as their chests came flush together. Valjean allowed his arms to simply drape around Javert’s middle, as one of the man’s hands crept up to his shoulder; whether Javert meant to hold him there or shove him away was not entirely clear. The uncertainty had yet to leave the man’s expression—he seemed to be fighting a war within himself. As it was, better judgement appeared to be losing. 

The Lieutenant’s hold tightened, and then he spoke. “One of your crew could come looking for you at any moment,” he said lowly, his height meaning that he looked down at Valjean from under his eyelashes.

“True,” Valjean murmured in reply, though proper mortification at the idea of being caught refused to come. “Surely you won’t let that stop us.”

Raising his hand, his fingers slid into Javert’s hair just above the tie of his queue. He moved like one dreaming—after all their dancing around one another, finally they had collided. Javert was as perilous as a reef about which the tide eddied, but in that moment, Valjean was too entranced to concern himself with the dangers of wrecking. He tugged Javert’s head down, standing on his toes until with a quiet gasp their lips came together.

For a man with a face like weathered granite, Javert’s mouth was surprisingly soft, forever chapped by wind and salt spray. The kiss deepened almost at once, Javert pulling Valjean to him convulsively as if to shackle him there with his hands alone. When they broke apart, both were breathing hard, and Valjean grinned a little breathlessly.

“If I had known this was how you felt, _Lieutenant_ , we could have been doing this ages ago.”

“Be quiet,” Javert grumbled, his hands sliding down Valjean’s back as he dragged him in for another bruising kiss. Before he could quite manage it, Valjean grabbed hold of his forearms, pinning them against the officer’s sides. Javert tried to pull himself free, but in vain; Valjean held him too firmly. A pink flush began to crawl up the man’s face.

“Easy now,” said Valjean softly. “This isn’t something that needs to be rushed. I may have to tie you like one of the barrels if you can’t keep your hands from getting carried away.”

The words were idle, teasing, but their effect was not; Javert’s flush bloomed full force over his cheekbones, his pupils swallowing what remained of the iris. In the short silence that followed, there was only the sounds of their breathing, and Valjean’s grip on his elbow.

Valjean’s throat worked. “Oh,” he said hoarsely. “Is that how you would prefer it?”

Javert did not reply, except for an inarticulate noise that emerged unbidden from the back of his throat. The look in his eyes was approaching panic, but also contained an undeniable attraction. Thoughtfully, Valjean tugged the Lieutenant’s hands behind his head. Javert did not try to stop him, uncharacteristically limp in the Captain’s grasp. Holding him there gently, Valjean kissed him; the noise spilled out again in response, a muffled, needy groan that fanned the coals in the pit of Valjean’s stomach to a flame. 

“Yes,” he mumbled against Javert’s lips. “Yes.” 

He guided Javert back towards the bulkhead, the Lieutenant following his unspoken instructions blindly. There was a lamp hanging over a peg in the wall which Valjean hastily removed, and then he reached for a coil of rope on the floor. One hand on Javert’s chest steadied him; the man looked rather dazed, as though at any given moment he might either crumple to the floor or else fall back to kissing Valjean recklessly. When Valjean straightened, rope in hand, Javert watched with wary desire as he reached again for the Lieutenant’s wrist.

“A bowline, if you’ll allow me,” Valjean murmured, as he looped the rope around the slenderest part of Javert’s arm and knotted it. “It will tighten if you pull, so bear that in mind.” 

He bound the man’s other hand in a similar fashion, holding them above Javert’s head so that he could hook the rope over the lamp peg. When he was through, Valjean stepped back to admire his handiwork.

Javert’s mouth hung open slightly in amazement, his hair mussed and his cravat disheveled. It was a far cry from his usually-unflappable appearance, and it sent another shiver of want down Valjean’s spine at the way Javert seemed to melt into the ropes. The Lieutenant could scarcely move more than to sway with the awkward angle of his arms, but he did not complain. Instead, he watched Valjean through half-lidded eyes, all of his usual ferocity diffused through the lens of arousal. 

For a few moments, Valjean contented himself just to look, until Javert blinked back to a sort of awareness and said roughly, “We are certain to get caught.”

Valjean let out a breath of laughter. “And if we are?” he asked, closing the gap between them once more. “I am the Captain, aren’t I? Who is there to object?”

Javert flushed deeper, no doubt mortified by the very thought of anyone seeing him like this, but tossed his head. “Just do not expect me to address you as ‘sir’,” he muttered.

“Would you?” Valjean asked, caught off guard by the idea.

“Absolutely not,” Javert growled back.

This time when Valjean kissed Javert, it was different; the Lieutenant could only twist and shudder in Valjean’s arms, his mouth hot against Valjean’s lips. Almost as an afterthought, Valjean opened the buttons of Javert’s tailcoat, rucking up the shirt beneath to slide his palm over skin. Now it was Valjean who groaned; Javert’s stomach was lean with muscle, but soft, and dusted with dark hair that traveled below his navel. And it was clear that Valjean’s attentions were having an effect—a hard bulge nudged against his thigh, which spoke quite plainly to how Javert felt about his current position.

“Ah,” Javert grunted against his mouth. “ _Christ_ —Valjean—”

“Mmm?” Valjean hummed, stroking the jut of the man’s hipbone with the pad of his thumb, fingers splayed over Javert’s side.

“ _God_ ,” Javert cursed, his hands clenching and unclenching in empty air. “You are a villain, touch me for God’s sake—”

Any further blasphemies were cut off as Valjean’s fingers slipped inside his waistband, unbuttoning the front flap clumsily in his haste. It occurred to Valjean in a distant sort of way that his own body was similarly affected. Under other circumstances, he might have thought on how strange it was that after years of celibacy it should be this man who undid him; but as it was, Valjean had no thoughts at all except for the way Javert bucked against his hand as he finally got his breeches open.

The length of him was hot and already slick; Valjean stroked him slowly, watching for every hitch of breath and tic of the vein in Javert’s neck. Even now the Lieutenant was trying to maintain his composure, to restrain himself—as though Valjean had not restrained him already. The reminder that Javert had allowed this, had invited it even, sent a new wave of heat rippling through his stomach. Out in the maelstrom, an echoing boom of thunder rent the air apart, and in the belly of the ship, Valjean held Javert to him, stroking him through tiny paroxysms of pleasure that came in time with the thunder’s reverberations.

“Valjean.” Javert spoke his name through gritted teeth, straining against both the ropes and Valjean’s grip for more—speed, friction, it hardly mattered. 

“Slowly,” Valjean murmured. “I want—to see you.” 

It was growing difficult to follow his own advice, when the heat in his blood was reaching a boil, but it would be sweeter not to rush. Valjean mouthed over the line of Javert’s stubble, down to the sheen of sweat on his neck and the taste of his pulse. The tendons stood out in the Lieutenant’s arms as the rope held them immobile, his hips stuttering against the pressure of Valjean’s calloused fingers. Surreptitiously, Valjean palmed at the fork of his trousers, his own arousal aching with need. 

Against the howl of the wind, Javert’s gasps and panted breaths filled the small compartment. The waves, slapping the sides of the hull, echoed the slap of flesh. And the lightning—Valjean felt it searing flesh every time he and Javert locked eyes. 

“Javert.”

It took Valjean a moment to realize it was himself who had spoken; he did not recognize his own voice. Javert did not acknowledge him, his eyes closed beneath the wisps of hair plastered to the sweat of his brow.

“Javert, I’m -” Valjean tried again. He did not have a chance to finish before Javert’s back arched, a cry he could not muffle tearing in his throat. And then he was spilling into Valjean’s hand, wet heat seeping through his fingers.

“Oh,” Valjean managed, and then he was the same, his palm pressing into the damp that even now was staining the material of his breeches. Yet even as startling as his own completion was, it was not that which caught Valjean unawares. Rather, it was how even with desire’s passing, his body flagging from the unexpected release, the urge to kiss Javert, to hold him close or pin him to the wall, did not dissipate. 

In a daze, Valjean unbound the rope first from the bulkhead, then from Javert’s hands, marveling at the tender pink marks left in the flesh of his wrists where the knot had pulled tight. Gently, Valjean pressed his lips to one such mark, listening to Javert’s exhausted intake of breath, and then pulled the man upright. He was more undone than Valjean could ever remember seeing him, his eyes glazed and his usually-hard features slack. With a plain handkerchief, Valjean cleaned them both up, then set about trying to straighten the Lieutenant’s uniform to a semblance of respectability.

Gradually, Javert seemed to come back to himself. He batted away Valjean’s hands, buttoning his coat and straightening what wrinkles he could from his cravat. Within minutes, he began to resemble his usual impeccable self, and the quiet between them strained into something more awkward. 

“Well,” said Valjean finally. “I suppose the Vice-Admiral is still waiting.”

“Yes,” Javert agreed.

“After you, then.”

“Valjean.”

Valjean raised his head to find Javert wetting his lips, on the verge of speaking. 

“You need not say anything,” Valjean told him quickly. His smile turned crooked, and a little sad. “We can pretend that it never happened, if that is what you -”

“Valjean.”

The Captain shut his mouth, looking Javert over apprehensively. 

“I suppose I ought to be thanking you for that,” Javert said. He did not seem angry. He seemed, in fact, to be amused. “Though I’m not certain my shoulders would say the same.”

Valjean blinked. “You’re welcome,” he replied automatically.

“Come along now,” the man continued. “As you said, Chabouillet is waiting.”

With that, Javert turned from the cargo hold towards the passage and the stairs beyond. Valjean followed after, his mouth curving up at the corner.

A notion was beginning to form in the back of Valjean’s mind, a notion in which he might offer his cabin to the Vice-Admiral and find some other place to bed down for the evening. Certainly the ship offered any number of small corners where a man could curl up in relative privacy. And if he wound up with company through the night, well, so much the better.

But whether Javert consented to join him or not, this much at least felt certain—he had a new ally; perhaps he had a lover. The Lieutenant turned over his shoulder, jerking his head as if to urge Valjean forward. They fell into step side by side, fingers brushing, and Valjean felt a true smile break across his face. 

In that moment, he could have taken on a fleet of warships—and when they woke tomorrow to hurricane-washed skies, they would face what came together.


End file.
